


There Are Things No One Expects

by misanthrobot



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 07:03:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/950120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthrobot/pseuds/misanthrobot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neither of them are sure where this is going to lead, but Sherlock is all about solving the puzzles in people, and Marcus knows that you don't become a good detective without being willing to investigate possibilities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Are Things No One Expects

It starts out as a lot of things. An experiment. An attempt to prove a point. An exercise in sheer gall. What it doesn't start out as is an attempt to be cruel. That would simply be unforgivable. So it starts when Sherlock simply holds up a finger in the middle of a conversation that he and Joan are having as if he's hitting pause. She doesn't appreciate it and makes it known with a glare and a small huffy snort. He walks over to Detective Bell and asks him if he would like to come over for some tea and perhaps some sex with no strings attached. What he's expecting is a long awkward silence, possibly an utterly scandalized expression, and maybe a dash of anger. What Detective Bell gives him instead is a raised eyebrow and a mildly confused look, like he's waiting for Sherlock to suddenly offer an explanation.

Eventually, he makes his way around to actually asking for it himself.

"And," Bell says, dragging out the sound, "why are you asking me this?"

"Well, Detective, the fact of the matter is that you are actually _quite_ attractive, both to me and in general. So I was wondering if you would be open to the endeavor."

It's not the whole truth and both of them are rather aware of it. Bell isn't stupid and Sherlock doesn't have an easy tell, but neither is willing to back down. Joan stares at them both, then at her watch. Sherlock stares at Bell, hands clasped behind his back and rocking back and forth on his feet.

Eventually Detective Bell just shrugs and says, "As long as it doesn't get in the way of work. And for the record, I prefer coffee."

It's not the answer Sherlock was expecting. He doesn't find himself frequently surprised by anything, and usually not something as simple as asking someone for sex. He stands still and perfectly in place, sort of mildly boggled. Bell can tell just by the way he's sort of paused in word and gesture and he's almost a little pleased with himself. The only reason he's surprised at all is because he was expecting a totally different answer and a 'yes' wasn't it, though there is a part of him that respects the fact that the detective is unwilling to let such a base urge get in the way of properly doing his job. 

He stands there considering the repercussions of his actions while Bell discusses with Watson, who has recovered much faster from her surprise than he has from his, what time he should be over. It's as if, for all intents and purposes, the brownstone is hers rather than his (father's). Watson's barely concealed discomfort at how unashamed he is about his sexual partners is usually rather funny, but apparently she is an ardent supporter of the idea of friends-with- _Bell_ nefits, because they agree on this Saturday evening at eight without any sort of input from him.

It's all so banal that he almost rolls his eyes until Bell stares at him with one of those smug little half-smiles he favors so much.

"That gives you four days to help us solve the case, y'know?"

He manages to stop his rather good imitation of a deer in the headlights to nod in agreement before swallowing thickly.

Sherlock is absolutely sure that Watson is doing this because she's never seen him at a loss over something quite like this before, and the fact that they've only known each other for a relatively short time in comparison to their predicted lifespans doesn't really factor in as something that matters at the moment.

It certainly says something that Detective Bell trusts in his deductive abilities enough to give a deadline, but it also says a lot that he uses the word 'help'. Sherlock finds this fair. It isn't as if Bell doesn't pull his own weight and do his own footwork. If he didn't, Sherlock wouldn't work with him, wouldn't respect him and he certainly wouldn't have bothered to include Bell in this experiment-slash-attempt to prove a point-slash-hilarious accident that has apparently proved the exact opposite that he predicted. But competence is one of Bell's more charming qualities, and all hypotheses are falsifiable, or else they wouldn't be hypotheses.

+++

The murder is solved on Thursday. It winds up being the butler in the library with the candlestick. Sherlock would find it a little more amusing if he hadn't bludgeoned his mother to death after forcing her to modify her will. When people are beaten to death with heavy pewter candlesticks, it's never pretty. Body disposal by woodchipper is hardly any less so. It was unfortunate to lose a good person, and he knew she was good because no one had lied to his face when he had asked about her.

Joan gives her own brand of silent comfort, walking close to him and talking to him so he doesn't stew. She is quick to remind him of his date with Detective Bell this evening, which is unnecessary because he hasn't forgotten, but perhaps she thinks it will take his mind off things. She's right about that. She usually is. Before, it was simply something he was looking forward to doing for Glorious Science. Now it seems a welcome reprieve from his thoughts involving the case. 

They stop by a pharmacy for supplies, Joan waiting patiently and picking up a few odds and ends while he picks up his preferred brand of condoms and lubricant. They head for their favorite coffee shop afterward, Joan hankering for some halfway decent coffee for one, as opposed to the sludge they usually serve at the station. Sherlock doesn't mind either way when it comes to coffee and has a function over taste relationship with caffeine in general. That doesn't keep him from ordering something anyway.

"It's not a date." Sherlock reminds her as they walk. He sips at his tea and it tastes pleasant enough to make him regret the fact that he's making coffee later, which will probably taste like battery acid. It wakes him up well enough, but Joan does a much better job at it and he knows for a fact that Bell frequently ends up with the bottom of the pot at the station.

"It's not," he reiterates. "He's coming over for coffee and sex. That hardly qualifies as a date."

"At a specific time that was prearranged-"

"By _you_."

"To have sex with _you_. So it might as well be a date."

"Hardly."

He's not nervous or flustered about it, per se, simply wondering what effect this will have on their professional relationship. However, they're both mature adults so he sees little issue with it. But then again, so are all adults until a certain point, and he can't help but wonder what Detective Bell's is.

It really is an appointment of sorts though.

+++

Bell shows up just as Joan is leaving and they're very congenial for two people who know exactly what is going to be happening while she's gone. He asks her how she's doing and when to expect her back, and she answers his questions and poses a few of her own that make him blush up to his ears before he manages to eek out a good-natured chuckle.

Sherlock isn't immune to emotion, and they both _must_ be aware of that to some degree, which means he's certainly not immune to the feeling that his is essentially being casually ignored by two of the constants in his life in favor of chit-chat. Watson, who he is rather fond of, and Bell, who he is also rather fond of to a different extent. He supposes most would be offended by this, but there are things that these two in particular are simply able to get away with and this is simply one of them. 

Bell is looking more dashing than usual in his dark grey suit and brown boots. It's an ensemble he's favored quite often, and it's possible he wore it simply because that is the one Sherlock commented on when he was nearly framed. He always looks rather sharp in it. That he seems sharper now is probably a comment on Sherlock rather than Bell. The other times he's worn it, Sherlock wasn't exactly thinking about whether or not the tie would be sturdy enough to keep his hands tied to the bedpost.

Well, he had been, but it was mostly out of curiosity and he hadn't factored in the Detective.

Sherlock walks off while they're conversing and is about to start making the coffee when he enters the kitchen and finds a pot already brewing. He's not sure if he's thankful to Watson for making it, or if he resents her just a smidgen because now he's got nothing to do but serve coffee and find talking points because otherwise the coffee would grow cold and that is just mildly unappetizing. 

The door clicks shut after pleasant goodbyes are exchanged and Bell walks into the kitchen to find two mugs full of coffee.

"Which one's mine?"

"The one with the smiling cat," Sherlock says. 

So Bell takes the cup and a sip and curls his toes just a little in his shoes. Joan made the nicer coffee they had, and Sherlock knows just how he takes it just from remembering the smell of past cups. Two sugars and one cream. But Bell doesn't even ask how he knows, just nods in thanks and keeps sipping. His toes don't curl after the first sip, which Sherlock finds to be a shame.

Sherlock typically forgoes the tour of his home when it comes to one night stands, simply because he isn't there to get to know them. Detective Bell, however, is a friend. A friend that has been in his home before but not _around_ it. That seems like something that needs remedying.

"Would you like a tour?"

Bell blinks once and then again, putting down his half-finished coffee. He's relaxed a bit more since he came in, like cat that jumps on the bed and stumbles around until it finds a nice spot. He's a bit baffled because this is reading more and more like a lazy afternoon spent between friends, and less like a frantic one-time sexual encounter. But then, Sherlock has always done things by his own sort of system, and Marcus can't find the energy to waste right now to mind. If he did, he would have left and Sherlock would have done nothing to stop him. It's the unspoken arrangement of this not-date. 

He picks up his cup and jerks his head towards the door of the kitchen. "Lead the way," he says, taking another sip.

+++

The Brownstone--and Marcus thinks of it in capitals because it just seems right--is pretty much the opposite of his own apartment, which is brightly lit and meticulously organized. While he isn't one to paint his walls bright colors and collect knick-knacks, it's still home to him. It doesn't take him more that a cursory glance around to see that Sherlock is the opposite. The man has a variety of interests, most of them probably not considered normal by polite society, though he doubts Sherlock cares. 

The rooms give the impression that they were once spacious and filled with things that were there to occupy but not to serve any purpose other than that. Sherlock has turned them away from that, filled them with books on every subject he can possibly find, useful files from cases both solved and unsolved, and the occasional mug filled with crusted food. Bell picks one up and inspects it while Sherlock watches him from a doorway. He turns the cup towards Sherlock so he can see it's contents, but the other man just shrugs. 

"Ms. Hudson doesn't come by until Sunday. Charming woman. You two should meet."

There are touches of Joan around the house, from the selection of mugs in the cabinet to a few research books marked with silver charms on strings. Draped over the couch is a scratchy red blanket that looks like it's seen quite a bit of use. Her items don't so much encroach on the space as they do mold seamlessly into it. She belongs in this house as much as Sherlock does now.

Eventually his gaze falls on what Watson calls his Wall of Crazy.

"Do I wanna know?"

"I don't know," says Sherlock. "Do you?"

Marcus takes one look at Sherlock and shakes his head. "Yeah, I kinda do, but maybe later. It's not what I'm here for anyway."

Sherlock can appreciate this, is grateful for it without even saying anything. He watches the detective look around his home some more, watches him tilt his head and stare up towards the ceiling as if he's trying to look through it. Sherlock watches all of this and locks it away in his mind. A small part of him thinks that if Bell were to fall in the line of duty and he had to start over with another detective, he would like to remember the other man like this. Here, he is toeing the line between civilian and detective, between Marcus and Detective Bell. Curious and looking for answers for the sake of them.

Marcus can feel the eyes on his back, not like a burning gaze but more like a faint pressure, and he turns to face Sherlock and raises an eyebrow, before shrugging and going back to looking around. His eyes keep flicking upwards towards the ceiling and finally Sherlock is tempted to ask.

"Did Watson tell you about the bees?"

"She told me you had roof access."

"Well, it's a rather nice place for them. I'll have to find some sort of arrangement when it begins to snow, however."

"Can I see 'em?"

Sherlock enjoys the opportunity to show off his favorite hobby, though it seems like a bit of an odd thing for Detective Bell to ask. A bit personal, if he thinks about it, but the detective isn't a stranger so Sherlock decides to grant him this.

Anyway, he'd probably be less inclined to see them if he was allergic .

So Sherlock leaves the confines of his comfortable watching point in the kitchen and shows him up to the colony. He rambles on about them a bit, makes a show about naming his favorite workers, and Bell just gives him a look.

"Can you actually tell them apart, or are you just messing with me?"

"Of course not," Sherlock responds. "Don't be ridiculous."

Marcus isn't sure what question that answers.

+++

The first thing Sherlock says to the detective when the other man steps in from the roof and shuts the door is that he doesn't have to do this. Well, he doesn't say it so much as imply it. He's brutally honest most times, but it really wouldn't do to alienate Detective Bell when the man has been so helpful and prudent before. 

So what he does say is, "Will we be going all the way tonight, Detective Bell?"

"That depends. Are you gonna call me 'Detective Bell' the whole time?" Marcus asks.

Sherlock finds the hint of attitude and general cheekiness attractive. "Would you like me to?" He replies.

Marcus actually considers it, pursing his lips and furrowing his brow in thought. Sherlock entertains himself by imagining what he looks like under that shirt, then under the skin and all the way down into bone structure. It keeps him occupied enough to figure that Detective Bell has quite an interesting frame.

Eventually Marcus offers up a shrug. "Whatever works for you," he says, which really isn't an answer at all. Vague answers are shaping up to be the running theme for tonight.

Marcus closes the distance between them in exactly two overly long steps. He's close and yet respectful about his proximity and it's not inexperience that keeps him mindful, but he's always been conscious of the comfort of his partners in all aspects. He's had partners who were pleased by it and partners who were less so, but what it hasn't gotten him in a steady relationship, which he doesn't mind much. He lifts his hands and places them on Sherlock's waist, pulling him a little closer. The other man obligingly moves until they're pressed together at the hips before draping his arms over the detective's shoulders with an easy sort of grace.

Sherlock could easily pull back and cut this whole thing off if he wanted to, and that's the entire point of the caution that Marcus is showing. It's more tenderness than he was expecting from a single encounter, but if this is how he wants it then Sherlock can oblige even if he doesn't intend to play along. The entire point of encounters like this is to keep him on top of his game by allowing him to let go just slightly to fulfill a basic bodily need.

They stare at each other, and Sherlock could do this all day, really, but after a minute Marcus just sighs and nods to himself. 

"Alright, whatever. I'm just gonna kiss you now."

"Carry on then."

The kiss is slow and exploratory, both because Marcus really _is_ curious and because he's still not quite sure the whole thing isn't a joke or some sort of bizarre experiment. He presses Sherlock against a nearby wall before breaking the kiss. What he wants is time to consider what to do next and Sherlock allows it until Marcus gives him a nod. He looks at the other man and leans down to press their lips together again, moving away from the wall to push back against the detective a little harder. He brings a hand back up to the front to grab Marcus' tie while sliding the other up to cup the back of his head. It's a light but consistent pressure coaxing him into making the kiss deeper, and Marcus finds he doesn't mind in the least.

Marcus doesn't keep track of how long the kiss goes on, but Sherlock calculates it at a minute and thirty-six seconds. They don't run out of breath, and they don't lose interest in the activity. The only reason they break the kiss is because Bell can't actually balance on the balls of his feet forever. Especially in boots.

Sherlock tilts his head down and near Marcus' ear, leaning down to whisper, "Would you like me to fetch a step-stool?"

Marcus leans back as far as he can go without completely breaking contact. He looks offended and indignant until he doesn't. Until he's smirking with a barely there upturn of his lips and a wicked shine to his eyes.

"Don't bother. I'm just gonna have to bring you down to my level."

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally done for a prompt and quickly spiraled so far away from the concept that I just didn't even bother submitting it. Especially since I couldn't get around to writing the smut. I don't actually remember what it was called, and I actually started this so long ago that I don't remember when exactly it was supposed to take place. I shifted back and forth between Bell and Marcus because reasons.
> 
> Fun fact though? Jonny Lee Miller is a full six inches taller than Jon Micheal Hill according to a Google search I did for this fic, and I think that's adorable.


End file.
